Chuma Nwokolo Jr. Bombs and Churning Milk Dedication: for victims of landmines. the math was scribbled on the yellowing page false, anonymous shorn of further sense and referent it seemed a formula failed arithmetic abandoned as cryptic as a minefield from a war forgotten perhaps it once was central to a tax refund perhaps coordinates for a lost landmine today it is a scribble on a page elapsed. twelve digits on a scrap, still adding subtracting exploding while bombs rain and the rage of hatred flares it is hard to enthuse over eggs or write the poetry of churning milk. eggs that hatch and are eaten. milk that sours unattended. bombs that wait and wait. and wait I do not want a crate of thirty-six or half a dozen eggs. I have four pence no less for one egg no more for the rage that flames must flare one day at a time. at the lives twisted from eggs and milk by bomb in the barbed-wire grass. Soothsaying 101 The days are evil, Al Mubari, and we seek your wisdom: my son would go to Spain, would cross the seas and make his way to Europe in a fishing boat. here, your divining fee, firstborn of Wisdom’s own firstborn, whose evening eyes behold the gods. whose morning song bewitches birds: is this journey blessed, or what? will he live? will he prosper? what see you beyond our mortal horizons? * hail from clouds and hair from skinless dogs, tobacco from the hills of hell itself – or cash in lieu thereof… your fees are fat, Jado, now hear the oracle: I see cheques from Spain, see wealth beyond the seas. this son returns triumphant on the shoulders of his peers. go in peace in the crook of Fortune’s arm, Jado, remember me when He comes knocking – * Look well, Mubari, with a father’s eye his brothers too are three years gone without a word from Spain. confound this mother’s doubt that says he goes to seal their silence. he alone is left, and though the rains have failed again, at least my river flows. at least our rivers flow. my womb did not fill thrice to feed the hungers of the sea, so look again, Al Mubari, confound this mocking doubt that sees me weeping daily here until my dying day. what do you see beyond those horizons? * seers don’t lie. this is the lion’s prayer:
may tomorrow’s breakfast eat well today. what I said is true, now and forever… but, looking back with a father’s eye, Jado, those cheques will bounce, and the greatness comes with heaviness, for he rides upon the shoulders of pallbearers. Page Up l Poems | 
